


In My Eyes

by 13thSyndrome



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Angst, Arrhythmia, Drug Use, Emergency - Freeform, F/M, Friendship, Hospital, M/M, Medical, Medical Trauma, Medication, Meds, One Shot, POV First Person, Underage Drinking, Unrequited Love, er - Freeform, prescription
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4193319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thSyndrome/pseuds/13thSyndrome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My soul remembers you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In My Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually pretty sad.

In My Eyes

_Marco_

     Jean Kirstein.

     There was something about him that drew my attention.

     Initially, I felt nothing. We suffered the occasional glances, ways of surveying others for potential gain or threats. When those glances lingered, I thought little of it.

     I always kept my head down. Mostly following the cracks along the pavement, I saw more of people's shoes, and I preferred that to some extent. Brazen and loudmouthed, he was strange to me, constantly on the edge of taking it too far. He had a bit of tick for stirring anyone, everyone, up.

     When our glances turned to words and our words to sentences and our sentences to conversations, I felt an abrupt switch in myself. The air felt heavy around me, more intoxicating than before. He seemed very much unchanged.

     Had he really remained the same? I often pulled at those older memories. I found nothing, but, for the first time, my senses were clear.

     In the following months, my vision sweetened as the leaves of the trees stirred and fell. My gazes were a heavy sap upon him, almost palpable in their intent. My words were a thick, hot stew. I was too immersed in my own feelings to see his own hesitate and cool.   

     I should have held back and let my feelings simmer awhile longer, but I didn't. This was too new, bold like fresh coffee and the sun cutting through the curtains. It wasn't long before I completely boiled over.

     One particularly humid day in winter, I found myself fidgeting with the collar on my shirt. I was at a holiday party, in the presence of friends and acquaintances. Food was everywhere. Everyone had a glass. By sunset, half of the drinks bought and brought were consumed. When a chorus of laughter sounded at the front door, I heard a familiar voice and reddened. My hands dropped from my collar.

     Our eyes met across the room, and I took in his form. He really was lovely with those sharp hazel eyes. Even so, there was a gentleness there, and I couldn't turn away from something like that.

     He smiled at me and then I found myself smiling back and then he was walking over  and I stood up from the couch or chair or whatever I was on and he waded his way through a string of people and his eyes were warm and I felt overcome and just as we were about to meet, she came.

     And all of our progress fell away in an instant.  

     He stood a little taller. His tone fell an octave lower. When he looked at her, the warmth in his eyes burned, and I felt lost.

     And so I drank. I drank while he laughed with her. I drank when she touched his arm briefly, allowing herself a moment of affection. I drank when he seemed at complete ease, drinking in her charm. I drank when she left and he followed.

     He shot me a thumbs up. I smiled in approval.

     Feeling a bit brushed off, I stared at the floor. An ache spread across my body, dull but relentless. I was an idiot.

     I pathetically drank until night arrived, and when everyone was dancing, I tried to ease my way through the crowd and into the backyard.

     My body stumbled against a nearby wall and slid down it, feeling the coarse paint scratch mercilessly at my back. I leaned my head back, hoping for some reprieve from my suddenly very raw disappointment. The alcohol heated my skin in the cold air, and it felt nice for a time. Breathing in and out seemed to help until my breaths were heavy and hard on my lungs. And when my breathing tried to correct itself, the sound of heavy sobs filled the air and I felt ashamed.

     I felt incredibly stupid for thinking there was _something_ there, and the idea that I had tricked myself tore at my inebriated mind.

     I was alone.

     The sky was filled with the eerie noise of whipping and howls. The wind drowned me out.

     Ten, fifteen, or twenty minutes passed before I lifted my head from my arms. I knew I wanted to stay out there, but what could I really do other than return inside?

     Completely drained, I rubbed tears and snot from my face and decided to lay down on the patio.

     The world felt calmer on the floor. As I curled into myself, the cement was cool on my puffy, soaked skin. I listened to the turbulent thudding of music from the house and eventually succumbed to exhaustion.

     An hour later, I woke to a bang.

     I felt incredibly confused as my mind dragged itself from its drunken slumber. When I realized someone was shouting at me, a vice-like grip stabbed into my shoulder and began shaking me hard. My eyelids peeled themselves open, and, although my vision was speckled with small black dots, I saw one of my friends. She must've been drunk too, but she looked very alarmed. Realizing I was in at least a semi-cognitive state, she released me.

     "Marco! Where have you been?"

     It was Sasha.

     Still drunk, I stared up at her annoyed,

     "Asleep."

     "Okay, but get up. We need to go inside. Now," she said, voice elevating.

     She was definitely drunk, if she thought she could get me back into that house.

     "No... I'll stay," I slurred, "Leave me alone."

     I pushed my head back into my arms, trying to ease myself back to sleep. She pulled me up by my hair and slapped me. I shut my eyes tighter.

     "Sasha, you can't--."

     "He's going to the hospital," she snapped, "Jean just fell over, and the paramedics came. Mikasa kept trying to give him CPR, but--. None of it made sense. Marco, I don't know what happened."

     My eyes widened, and I shot up and went straight to the front gate, staggering slightly with each step. Sasha yelled at my back, but I heard nothing. Blood rushed into my ears, as I found myself in the front yard. Realizing my car was a couple of blocks away, I broke into a run, precariously swaying left and right. I cursed at the weight of my body and how my feet dragged across the street. Gasping, I finally reached my car and angrily dove into my pocket for my keys. When I pulled out and onto the road, I crushed the small voice that told me that I was still drunk; I was a danger. It wasn't a good idea, but I wasn't thinking straight. I had to see him.

     On the road, I kept replaying an old memory back and forth in my mind. He mentioned that he had a heart condition, and no one really spoke of it again. I'd almost forgotten.

     My thoughts raced with a frantic energy, wild and nauseating. I had to see him.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Jean_

(10 hours earlier)

     I've felt really off this week. Doc's been wanting to change up my antiarrhythmics, and, honestly, I've been wanting to punch him for even asking. New meds always made me feel like shit, but this guy constantly brought up a new product. I'd tell him no, and he'd say that this one was the last; this one was "on the frontier of a medical miracle."

     My arrhythmia was persistently on the fritz, a daily reminder that I was forced to watch myself. Whenever I came home, Mom would squawk in my ear,

     "You shouldn't be running. You shouldn't be drinking. Don't smoke. Don't stress yourself. Don't play so hard, Jean."

     I had to give up coffee. It was frustrating, but I never felt the need to be compliant with my limitations. I decided to forego the meds this week, and it felt good. I considered it my "fuck you" farewell to Dr. Zackly.

     I had a party to go to, and I was not going to spare a single thought for anything but having a good time. Marco as my witness, I was going to tell Mikasa how I felt and ask her out.

     When I told Marco my plan for Connie's party, he looked down for a few seconds, smiled, and told me to go for it. We were sitting. I squeezed his shoulder, and he smiled brighter. I ran my fingers down his arm and held his hand. I liked to be more physical with him, because he was receptive to it. I wanted to express that he didn't need to be safe with me. He was very careful with the way he treated others. 

     People were quick to notice his kindness, and they took advantage of that. Marco would go out of his way to help others, a task I found both difficult and useless. I told him he should just watch out for himself, because no one would do it for him. Of course, he just smiled at me and tucked his hand behind his neck. His own polite way of telling me to fuck off, I suppose. He wouldn't listen to me, regularly taking unnecessarily long routes to ensure someone had his undeserved, undivided attention. He was such a moron.

     But the thing about him was that he was incredibly subtle. No one really saw anything beyond the freckles and half-smiles. No one really saw Marco.

     Hell, when I first met him, I expected him to be boring beyond belief. He was the type of guy to interject or shut up when necessary. He encouraged or he advised when asked. He was courteous, and he was empty. He seemed like a cutout of a person.

     I became _aware_ of him in pieces. He was calculated in his tone of voice, in his eyes, and in his words. In the true Marco way, he tried his very best to hide his opinions, but they were etched on his body.

     In anger, he went rigid; his movements were almost mechanical. In sadness, he was loose. Too loose. His body seemed to tilt and sag, joints coming free of each other. In relief, he was more taciturn, feeling at complete ease to lean on his right side and allow others to take the reins. In intrigue, he leaned forward, absentmindedly circling his wrist. When he was happy, those calculated eyes lost their form as they turned glossy and half lidded.

     Alone, he was free with his words and didn't dance around my feelings. He would watch my back, and each day, I was learning that he was more of a "no bullshit" kind of man than I realized. I knew I had a temper. He knew that, and when things got messy, he called me out. People were typical. I knew that. I expected him to leave. He didn't.

     Alone, Marco was almost poetic in his expressions and movements. Not graceful, but infinitely earnest. He was gripping, and he was alive. In the quietude of my room, there were no boundaries between us.

     "I've got to leave, Jean," he said. He stood up and stuck his hands in his pockets.

     "Alright. I'll see you at Connie's then."

     "Bye, Jean."

     He stepped away from me and began to walk out the door. He slouched for some reason.

     "Marco," I murmured as he turned towards me, "You, okay?"

     For a moment, his eyes fell to the floor, but he immediately recovered. He smiled at me, nodded, and walked out the door.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

     "He just fell over?" said a voice.

     "He fell over," repeated the other. A third chimed in,

     "I thought you said he was at a party. Drugs?"

     "Chart says he's got Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome, Dr. Ackerman."

     "Great. So, he's got WPW, and he was drinking according to the odor alone."

     "It's really a bad situation for someone so--. He's going into cardiac arrest."

     "Again? His heart is going to be--."

     "Not another word. Focus on what's happening now."

     Pressure. Pressure on my chest.

     And then, static.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Marco_

     Trost Medical.

     I made it. I made it to the hospital.

     Ripping the keys from the ignition, I tumbled out of the car and dashed towards the entrance. Jean was so close, and I felt my gut constrict painfully from the anxiety. He was Jean. He would be fine. Nothing could happen to him. I laughed to myself, simultaneously slowing my pace. Nothing would happen to him.

     I nodded to myself and entered the hospital. The receptionist gave me a bored look as I approached.

     "May I help you?" she droned. Her eyes were red.

     "I'm looking for someone," I said, "Jean Kirstein."

     She spent a minute typing him up and told me he was still in Emergency.

     "Which room?" I asked.

     "Are you family? Only family is allowed to know his information." she said.

I wanted to lie.

     "I'm--. I'm his  best friend," I pleaded, "Please tell me where he is."

     She seemed sympathetic at that point, but she just rubbed her eyes and said,

     "Honey,  I'll let you know where he is, but you'll be forced to wait in the ER's waiting room."

     "Fine! That's fine!" My voice was frantic now.

     "He's on the first floor in D wing," she said, "But you should know--."

     I didn't hear the rest, as I practically ran through the labyrinth like hallways. The signs were a bit of a blur, but I managed to reach the ER within a couple of minutes. It was busy tonight.

     People were plopped down in almost every available seat. The occasional cries of a child whipped across the room, echoing against the walls. Moans and hushed voices kept an angry buzz in the air. The buzzing overwhelmed me, and I finally maneuvered across several disgruntled women to reach the nurse's station.

     "Excuse me," I breathed out, "I'm looking for someone. Jean Kirstein."

     The methodical typing rang out again.

     "He's here," said a tall man with dark hair, "Are you a family member? "

Not again. Not this again.

     "No, no. I'm not, but I need to--. I have to see him. He's my best friend, and I--."

     "You'll have to wait over there, until he's out."

     "Please. I need to see him. Please."

     "We can't send you in, if you aren't related."

     Waiting for more information, I pressed my hands into the counter. The man seemed irritated. I said in a strained voice,

     "I understand, but could you tell me what's going on? What's wrong with him?"

     "Sir," he stated, "You're going to have to sit down over there and wait. "

     I inhaled and felt myself start to lose control.

     "I need to know--."

     "Dok. It looks like the patient doesn't have anyone with him in there," said a second nurse, "We'll let you in--."

     "Smith, you know we're not supposed to do that," the nurse, Dok, fumed, "It's against regulations."

     "The patient is 19," the other said calmly. He faced me and pointed at a pair of double doors.

     "Use the second door. Go down the hall and turn left. He's in room 12A. Don't go into the room. You can wait outside it."

     I thanked them profusely and hurried to Jean.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Jean_

     I woke up, and something was in my throat.

     I wanted to rip it out.

     When I tried to move, I couldn't. I panicked. I couldn't take it out. It had to come out. It had to come out.

     I tried to scream and call for help, but I couldn't make a noise. My vision was clouded with lights too bright. I kept trying to scream. I wanted out.

     My mouth was dry, and I was suffocating. I was going to suffocate.

     Tears ran down my face. I thought about how pathetic this was. I was trapped, and the last thing I was going to hear was this incessant buzzing. The odors of cleaning solution and mold wrapped around me, rancid and stale. My eyes were filled with white.

     The taste of his absence was too strong and unfamiliar. I gagged.

     My fingertips coiled around cloth, and I screamed, silent and helpless. My limitations overpowered me. I screamed.

     "Jean? Jean!" someone said. I heard the sound of footsteps break through the haze.

     "He's awake! He's awake," the same person shouted. Who was it?

     A hand grabbed my own, and I felt a tug at my memory. It was a guy, but who was this?

     "Hey, Jean," he said, voice cracking, "It's me."

     I stopped. My vision began to clear, and I listened to his breathing. Less panicked, I tried to squeeze his hand, but I was so weak. He couldn't have felt anything.

"Oh, Jean," he whimpered, pressing his mouth to my hand, "Jean."

     I tried to speak again, but nothing came out.

     "It's me," he spoke into my hand, hot breath running along my fingers, "It's Marco."

     I blinked hard and looked at him. We were both crying, looking nasty as fuck, but he was here. I tried to squeeze his hand again, and he choked out a laugh that sounded more like a sob.

     He raised his head and touched my face. I wanted to lean into him. Fuck, I wanted to hold him. I stared at him. His entire body shook, and I was restrained. I was tired.

     "Sleep," he whispered, "Sleep, Jean."

     Marco was very quiet after that, and as much as I fought against it, I felt the room recede.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

     After three days, I was told I could leave the hospital.

     I'd gotten an implantable cardioverter defibrillator or ICD surgery. The surgeon told me it was absolutely necessary due to my increased chances of complete heart failure. This was her fancy way of saying my arrhythmia was shit enough to send me into cardiac arrest twice.

     After the surgeon, a GP told me to abstain from heavy forms of exercise, smoking, drinking, and stress. He parroted my mother's words. This was a true blow to my lifestyle, but I was just happy to have that ventilator out of my body.

     As I collected my things, I called Marco.

     He left sometime the night before to get a few things for me. We both thought I wouldn't be out for a couple more days.

     He didn't answer, so I left him a voicemail that I was going back to my apartment.

     I figured he fell asleep.

     I rode home with my parents, while they scolded me about being irresponsible, reckless, and a complete idiot. My mother read the instructions off my new meds outloud to soothe herself.

     When I entered my apartment, I sighed and set my meds on the counter. They felt heavy in my hand. They felt like restriction.

     My roommates played some strange game in the kitchen and surrounded me before I could sneak into my room. After gently telling them to fuck off, I went into my room and laid down. I sent Marco a quick text that I was home.

     I fell asleep within the hour.

     I received a call within two.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

     I dreamt of him. His scent was in my lungs. His voice was in my ears. His body was in my hands.

     I dreamt of him. His taste was on my tongue. His heat was on my own. His body was in my hands.

     I dream of him. His eyes are shut. His skin is cool. His body is in my hands.

     I dream of Marco Bott. His face is lined with freckles. His hands are full of flowers. His body is out of reach.

     I hear the screaming of the present, garbled and breathless.


End file.
